


Flat Pack

by Nny



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:48:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Wait... you're not </i>actually<i> trapped under something heavy, are you?"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Flat Pack

You run with wolves and you start pinning a lot more on instinct, Stiles has found. He'd always thought it was the standard stuff, fight or flight, but it turns out that instinct is a lot more complex and layered than that, that it's all about the things that kick in before you even have time to think; the fact that Derek texts **come over** and he instantly grabs his keys is a little unsettling. So he stalls. 

**What, are you injured? Trapped under something heavy? Desperate for the ol' Stilinski charm?**

He _unsuccessfully_ stalls; the fact that the former is way more likely than the latter is why he's in the jeep when the next text vibrates his ass, and the eyeroll he can picture with Derek's **just come over** is weirdly comforting. The route to Derek's loft has become as automatic as breathing, and maybe that's where the changes are rooted. It's easy to remember a time when he would have ignored Derek's text, or called Scott for back up, or wondered how in the hell Derek had got hold of his number, anyway, but he can't remember when he first called up his text messages and had Derek on the first screen right alongside Scott and his dad. There's a particularly 21st century declaration of significance in never having to scroll to text someone, and Stiles is a little weirded out that the sourwolf has lurked into that category, apparently to stay. 

He pulls up outside the grimy brick building - he'll say this for Derek's dens, they're always in crappy enough areas that he never has to look for parking - and doesn't even bother with the door. Derek's intercom had been the sacrificial handset that ensured a good house-warming, knocked off the wall and thoroughly fractured by Isaac before any of the human contingent had even managed to get drunk. (His immediate reaction, his hunched posture had been kind of awful for a second there. Then Derek had said something dry and hilarious and weirdly it had been Jackson that had broken up laughing first, and Isaac's shoulders had slid down from around his ears enough that Boyd could sling an arm around them, and Stiles had been wearing the same grin for pretty much the entire night). Stiles circles around into the little trash-strewn alley that hugs the side of the building, hauling a dumpster forward a little way so he can grab out the metal pole with a hook at the end and pull down the bottom of the fire escape. Derek always leaves his window open a little for his pack. (Stiles had suggested a dog door exactly once). 

The last of the bright afternoon sun is still warming the metal against his fingers, and the contrast with the inside of Derek's loft is enough to leave Stiles blinking for a couple of seconds as his eyes adjust. He doesn't move away from the window until they do, because Derek's initially spartan loft had been picking up mismatched furniture as fast as the pack could find it and he was never sure what he was going to crash into, and he's glad of it when he can finally see enough to make out the pieces of wood stacked up in the middle of the floor. 

"Derek?" he calls, and there's a scuffle from a doorway that has never been open before. 

"Stiles," Derek says, flat and unimpressed. "Get in here." 

"Er," Stiles says, helpfully, and his heart rate picks up a little, although he's pretty sure Derek won't be able to tell why. It's just a hell of a lot easier, Stiles has found, not to contextualise Derek in a bedroom sort of way. He already has shirtless, see, that's firmly a part of his night time fantasies; in the weird moral high ground of teenage boys it's okay to jerk off to Derek shirtless because he does it so openly and publicly and practically _eagerly_ , damn him. It's heading directly into skeevy ground if he knows what Derek's bedroom looks like, because Stiles won't be able to stop himself from mentally adding the shirtless to the bedroom and making Derek the unwilling star of his night time routine rather than just the occasional cameo. Maybe more than occasional. There's a possibility he's due an upgrade to series regular and his name in the credits, okay, and this metaphor has kind of gotten away from him. 

" _Stiles_ ," Derek says, and Stiles lets out a long breath. 

"Wait," he says, crossing to the doorway, "you're not _actually_ trapped under something heavy, are you?"

It's almost as good. Derek - not shirtless, thank you universe, but that shirt is doing seriously awesome things for the lines of his body - is kneeling in the middle of the floor with the bare bones of a bed scattered around him, awkwardly attempting to prop one of the sides on a pile of thick books with his other hand outstretched towards the headboard, as though he can jedi it into not sliding down the wall. 

"Hold this, would you?" 

"You didn't think about maybe asking one of the kids _living with you_ to help out?"

Derek glares, and Stiles sighs loudly and drops to his knees, taking the slat of wood so Derek can go prop up the headboard at the right angle, take the strain off the screws holding this thing together. 

"I'm the alpha," Derek grumbles, and Stiles snorts out an unexpected laugh. 

"That you are, buddy," he says, "but it's not always about application of strength, sometimes it's about the angles required to screw straight." _Derek_ snorts at that one, and it takes Stiles a second before he flushes an all encompassing and hectic red. "I hate you," he mumbles. Derek slants him a sidelong glance, small smirk curling his lips. 

"Sure you do, _buddy_ ," he says. 

"Ugh," Stiles says, and shifts himself around until he's seated cross-legged, holding the wood across his chest. "So what's with the nesting?" 

Derek grunts and doesn't answer, just moves over to the other side of the head of the bed and starts working on the other side. Stiles is a little disappointed - it's rare he gets to hold actual conversations with Derek, and no one gets to judge him for kind of liking it - but still moves without being asked so he's sitting between the two sides, holding them up on his outstretched arms. So Derek can _screw straight_. When he finally breaks the silence Stiles actually jumps a little. 

"It seemed like it was time," he says. 

"To sleep in an _actual bed?_ " Stiles asks. 

"To make it home." 

The wood has stopped moving against Stiles' arm - Derek's clearly done attaching it - but it's still a long moment before Derek comes around to the foot of the bed where Stiles can see him and starts working on that end, allen key dwarfed in his hand. He doesn't look at Stiles, which is probably good because Stiles has no idea what expression is on his face and he wouldn't want to get toothed to death for wearing something too close to pity. 

"You're doing a good job," is what he eventually settles on, which gets no response other than an unwinding of some of the tension that Derek habitually wears across his shoulders. He's done pretty quickly with the outline of the frame and Stiles lowers his arms, shaking them out, pushing himself to his feet and stretching. 

"Thanks," Derek eventually says, quiet and oddly genuine, and whether it's for the furniture assistance or the comment Stiles isn't clear but it's the first time he remembers Derek saying it. 

"No problem," Stiles says, and then - entirely inadvertent - "oh please don't." 

Derek stops with his shirt hauled half off, pulling his head out to stare at Stiles with his hair sticking up everywhere. Stiles bites his lips and feels that treacherous flush spreading over his cheeks again. Derek pulls his shirt off his arms and tosses it to one side, still staring at Stiles quizzically. He doesn't reach for another. 

"I could have asked someone else," he says instead, moving a little closer, his eyes fixed on Stiles. Stiles scrambles over the side of the bed frame and onto the open space of the rest of the room, almost tripping over in the process. He was starting to feel a little too much like prey. 

"So why didn't you?" 

Derek shrugs, and slowly smiles. "I wanted you." 

"Oh please," Stiles says, as Derek gets close enough to touch, as his hand moves forward without him making a conscious decision about it ( _instinct_ ) and settles itself against Derek's side, "please tell me that's what it sounds like." 

"I didn't need you," Derek says, and Stiles closes his eyes and shivers a little at the breath of warmth by his ear. 

"I know," he says, "you're the big bad alpha." 

"Some things," Derek says, "are just easier with two."

There's a second of breathlessness, of the impossible shifting colors of Derek's eyes before he's too close to see them, before Stiles' drop closed as Derek's lips brush against his, dry and warm and stealing every thought in his head for a moment or two of electric silence. He blinks them open again and it's another second before he's together enough to speak. 

"You're calling me easy?" The stupid smile easy enough to read in his voice if Derek's too close to see it, and Derek snorts warm air against his lips. 

"Better then," he says, closing back in. 

Stiles can't disagree.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick little bit of unbeta'd nonsense on a rainy Saturday morning. 
> 
> (Look I'm on [tumblr!](http://slothturtle.tumblr.com/))


End file.
